


Between Sight and Sound

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Fluff, Friendship, Male Friendship, Teenagers, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:05:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[AU!Sherlock - Teen!lock]</p><p>John is home alone during a late night thunderstorm when his strange friend Sherlock shows up at his bedroom window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Sight and Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Just teen!lock friendship fluff written for johnlockchallenges on tumbr (OP). Prompts: argument, thunderstorm, purple, pyjamas, counting.
> 
> I'm sorry I suck at titles.

One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand, six one thousand, seven one th- _crack_.

John stared up at the dark ceiling as he waited for the next strike of lightning. The power had gone out about half an hour ago, and the storm wasn’t even at its worst yet. He could have gone to sleep—it was late enough and he was already in his pyjamas and he had nothing to do—but his parents were out, leaving the house quiet, and the storm was comfortable. A sudden gust rattled and whistled against his window, and another bolt sparked. He started counting as he blinked away the white afterimage in his eyes.

His mobile buzzed before he even finished one one thousand. He rolled over in his bed and read the fourth text his mother had sent him in the last ten minutes. He punched out a curt _Yes, I’m fine_. Christ, he was almost seventeen. The woman probably didn’t think he could do up his laces without her around. It didn’t help with Harry off at university, and now at her girlfriend’s for half the summer. These days John was the lonely target of their mother’s nosy, overprotective attentions. He couldn’t step out of the house without her nagging him about where he was going, who would he be with, how long did he expect to be out. He had only one year left before he, too, could escape, but at this rate it was going to be a hellishly long year.

A banging at his window made John jump. He thought the wind might have blown something into it until he rolled over and saw a pale, dark-haired, drenched boy staring in at him. John shot out of bed and swung the window open. The boy moved quickly, and by the time John closed the window again most of the dampness that had been let in was what dripped from the boy.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

The fifteen-year-old stared up at him, brow knitted slightly. “What?”

“Did you walk five blocks in that?” John gestured out the window. Sherlock nodded and hugged himself. Even though it was summer, the rain seemed to have soaked the thin boy to the bone. John burst out laughing. “You look like a drowned cat.”

“Towel would be nice,” Sherlock muttered.

“Come here, you idiot.” John steered Sherlock across his bedroom, into the hallway, and abruptly to the left into the bathroom. “Wait here. I’ll get you something dry to put on.”

Back in his room, John scavenged around in his dresser and closet for something that wouldn’t fall off Sherlock. He finally came up with a pair of trackpants he probably should have gotten rid of anyway because he doubted they would fit him, and a long-sleeved shirt his mother had bought him two Christmases ago that had disappeared into the back of his closet because he refused to wear the vibrant purple thing. He grabbed a spare towel from the linen closet and returned to the bathroom.

Sherlock had already disrobed and was standing in the middle of the bathroom shivering slightly. John looked away and thrust the towel and clothes blindly at his friend. He’d tried to explain privacy and personal space to Sherlock a dozen times before, but the kid just didn’t get it or didn’t care.

“Put your clothes in the tub.” John closed the bathroom door and went back to his room. He dug around for a torch, which he finally located under the bed. He flipped it on and stood it up on his bedside table. Then he spun slowly in his desk chair until Sherlock popped into his room. The trackpants were long on him and the shirt hung loosely on his bony frame. His black curls were still damp and stuck to his face. “Can’t you ever take care of yourself?” John got out of his chair bent down to roll up the legs. “You’re going to trip or something.”

“No I won’t.” Sherlock still lifted his foot for John to pull the leg out from under it.

“You’re like a four-year-old sometimes.” John stood and ruffled Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock grabbed his hand and held it in his chilled fingers. John was used to his friend’s peculiarities, but sometimes they still made him uncomfortable.

Sherlock held John’s hand to his cheek. “You’re warm.”

“I wasn’t jogging through the rain.” He pulled gently and Sherlock let go. “So what was it this time?”

“Mother and Myc,” Sherlock said. He sat on John’s bed and pulled his knees up to his chin.

“Mm.” John sat down next to him. “Mycroft home then?”

Sherlock nodded. “Second day. They’re already going at it. I was getting a headache.” He smiled at John over his folded arms. He shuddered involuntarily.

“Still cold?” John frowned. Sherlock tried to shrug, but it was interrupted by another shiver. “Right, under you go.” John got up and lifted his bedcovers. Sherlock opened his mouth, but John just pointed. Sherlock snapped his jaw shut and crawled into John’s bed. “Really, Sherlock, are you trying to make yourself sick?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock murmured.

“Says the guy romping about in a storm.” Before Sherlock could retort, John tugged the covers up and over his head. He pinned the sheets against the pillow as Sherlock wriggled underneath. Finally, one of Sherlock’s bony knees struck John in the gut. He grunted and let go, rocking back to sit on the bed.

Sherlock flipped open the covers and sat up. “Your fault,” he said, his face a little flush. John punched him in the arm. “Ow! What was that for?” Sherlock rubbed it and glared at John.

“For being an idiot.” His mobile went off and he snatched it up. Sherlock liked to answer John’s calls and texts for him, and it hadn’t taken John long to develop reflexes to avoid that whenever his friend was around. He didn’t even chance pausing to look at the contact info before answering. “Hullo.”

“John? This is Mycroft Holmes.”

John rolled his eyes and laid back across the foot of the bed. Sherlock looked at him unblinkingly with his arms wrapped around the covers and his legs. His fingertips barely peeked out from the sleeves. “What do you want?”

“Is Sherlock there? He’s gone out and forgot to take his mobile with him.”

John glanced over at Sherlock. “He didn’t forget it.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft said, trying to restrain his annoyance. “His mobile is at home and he is not. Is he there or isn’t he?”

“Bugger off, Mycroft.” John hung up and dropped his phone on the bed.

“Thanks,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Your brother’s annoying. Why does he ask questions he knows the answers to?”

“Because he’s a git?”

They broke into simultaneous giggles. After he calmed and caught his breath, John crawled up the bed and slipped under the covers with Sherlock. “You’re still cold.” Sherlock lay back down and John tugged the covers over them. He pulled Sherlock up against him and rested his chin on Sherlock’s head.

“My hair’s still wet,” Sherlock said.

John sighed dramatically. “Don’t you start pointing out the obvious too. That’s for us stupid people to do, not you geniuses.”

“You’re not stupid, John.” Sherlock grinned. “Well, not that stupid.”

“Oi!” John flicked the back of Sherlock’s ear.

Once Sherlock had stopped giggling again, he asked John to turn off the torch. John obliged and, back under the covers, wrapped his arm around the cold, skinny teenager.

Several silent minutes passed before Sherlock whispered, “What are you counting?”

“Huh? Oh. I didn’t even realise. The lightning.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You start counting after the lightning strikes.”

“Yeah, I’m counting- Wait, have you never counted the time between lightning and thunder?”

“No. Why would I?”

“You can figure out how far away the lightning strike is. Don’t those posh schools teach anything good? How did you not learn this in primary school?”

Sherlock shrugged against him. “Probably deleted it.”

John huffed. “You would.”

“Tell me how it works?”

“For every three seconds, that’s one kilometre. So if you count, say, nine seconds between the lightning strike and the thunder, that means the lightning strike was three kilometres away.”

“Seems like a questionable calculation.”

“It’s an estimate. Can you live with just an estimate?” John teased.

Sherlock grumbled. “Of course I can. It’s just lightning. It hardly matters.”

“Uh huh. Sure thing, O Brainy One.”

But after two more lightning strikes, John could just make out through the wind and rain Sherlock whispering.

One one thousand, two one thousand, three one th- _crack _.__


End file.
